SPOILIN’ THE BROTH
This column is hereby dedicated to all those eternally optimistic folks who are chasing those little white balls out at Rock-dale Country Club. Last year, after a 50-plus-year love affair with the game of tennis, I tried to reunite myself with golf, having played it in my 20’s after the local course opened in the 1960s. It was a rather futile reunion. So when former Rockdale resident Bob Taylor sent me the following, I found it timely. Enjoy.
This Crazy Game of Pasture Pool
In my hand I hold a ball, white and dimpled, rather small. Oh, how bland it does appear, this harmless looking little sphere. By its size I could never guess, the awesome strength it does possess. But since I fell beneath its spell, I’ve wandered through the Fires of Hell. My life has not been quite the same, since I chose to play this stupid game. It rules my mind for hours on end, a fortune it has made me spend. It has made me yell, curse and cry. I hate myself and want to die. It promises a thing called par, if I can hit it straight and far. To master such a tiny ball, should not be very hard at all. But my desires the ball refuses, and does exactly as it chooses. It hooks and slices, dribbles and dies, and even disappears before my eyes. Often it will have a whim, to hit a tree or take a swim. With miles of grass on which to land, it finds a tiny patch of sand. Alas, it has me offering my soul, if only it would find the hole. It’s made me whimper like a pup, and swear that I will give it up. And take to drink to ease my sorrow, but the ball knows I’ll be back tomorrow.
(Author unknown)
—bc— Along this same subject, a recent study found the average golfer walks about 900 miles a year. Another study found golfers drink, on average, 22 gallons of alcohol a year. That means, on average, golfers get about 41 miles to the gallon. They must almost feel like a Toyota Prius.
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